


Micky is a Fucking Alcoholic

by tinyroboboy



Category: Justix, Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Androids, Angst, Gen, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Underage Drinking, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 22:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16921314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyroboboy/pseuds/tinyroboboy
Summary: Micky goes on a self-destructive rampage, turning to an alcoholic binge.





	Micky is a Fucking Alcoholic

“You are out of control, Michelangelo!” Cyrano exclaimed. He was exasperated- he had no idea what to do with his youngest son.

 

“ **Quiet!** ” Micky shot back. That was his way of saying “shut up” with his limited vocabulary. He pushed his father’s wheelchair roughly and growled at him. “No! No ‘out of control!’” he repeated, yelling it back to Cy.

 

Cy was emotionally worn out by his little boy. Micky fought with everyone- turning his anger into physical violence every time without fail. “Michelangelo! You stop right now! Go to your room and calm down!” he ordered. It was quite a rare occasion for Cy to raise his voice and nearly every time it was related to Micky’s behaviour.

 

Micky yelled no words in particular. He made angry-sounding noises that were loud and mostly consisted of growling. He felt very uncomfortable when he got like this. He would get worked up about something and he didn’t know how to deal with his emotions. When he was a young child, he threw tantrums to get what he wanted. He was a kid and, at that point, had no language skills to speak of, so, it was to be expected- but now that he was in high school, that kind of behaviour wasn’t working so well for him. He only got stronger and more violent with age and the number of things that upset him was getting increasingly higher. It seemed like every little thing was setting him off these days.

 

“Michelangelo, I told you to go to your room and  **cool off** ,” Cy reiterated. “This is ridiculous, boy, you can **not** throw tantrums like this anymore, do you hear me?” He pushed himself a little closer to his son. “Where is Fluff?” he asked, his tone changing to a gentler one.

 

Micky glared at him. Fluff was his special stuffed cat toy that had been calming him down every day for nine years. Nobody knew why it worked, not even Micky, but, he carried him everywhere because of it. He was his greatest source of comfort.

 

“So…” Cy asked, “where is he?”

 

“R… room…” Micky informed.

 

“Then go in there and calm down like I’ve been telling you to!”

 

Micky stormed up the stairs, making sure to make his footsteps sound like thunder. He kicked over a basket full of laundry that was in the hall outside his room. He was exceptionally agitated, which always manifested itself with physical violence. He slammed his bedroom door shut after himself and screamed at it.

 

Cy heard him from the lower level and cringed. His high-pitched screams were enough to make anyone’s inner ear sting. Cy felt much more than responsible for his son’s behaviour. He always wondered what he should have done differently or what he could do now to help him. Micky had always been a rough case to deal with- he was a very sensitive boy by nature and his lack of expressive language skills made it difficult for him to work through any of his problems constructively.

Cy sighed and shook his head in sorrow. He made his way through their mansion to their bar, deciding to have a little glass of wine before going to bed.

 

After Micky was bored of screaming at the door, he stomped past his big brother’s empty bed to his own and laid, face down, atop the poorly made-up covers. He groaned and wiggled around where he laid, struggling to find a comfortable position. He reached up toward his headboard and eagerly grabbed Fluff. He had been sitting there waiting for Micky’s return when he left to get a cup of water a half an hour earlier.

Micky looked at Fluff’s face- it was embroidered in white to contrast his darker grey body, though, it was considerably dirty now and hardly looked white anymore. He hugged him close, squishing his soft body against his tiny chest. He may be fourteen, but the boy only came in at four-foot-three and weighed a mere sixty pounds.

Micky’s nearly unnatural size was somewhat intentional. At first, his father built him small to be cute when he was a baby, but kept up the tradition in hopes of keeping his destructive outbursts under some sort of control.

 

Micky rolled over in his bed and stared at his brother’s empty one. Part of him wished he wasn’t staying with a friend that night. He always had a way of making Micky feel better.

He struggled again to relax- he felt like his own body was mad at him for inhabiting it and was trying to kick him out. He felt an insatiable urge to wreck everything he saw and destroy the whole house.

Micky laid back on his bed and sighed loudly. He hated himself a lot of the time, but it got really bad when he threw larger tantrums. He felt stupid and childish- his fits accomplished nothing, yet he couldn’t stop throwing them. He wished he could communicate like his brother and sister. Why did they have to be perfect when he was just... broken?

He hugged Fluff tighter and started to cry. He was very emotional- full of different emotions pertaining to different things and he didn’t know how to deal with any of it. He just stored them all up in his tiny little body until something particularly upsetting came along and they all boiled over. He sobbed into his stuffed companion, letting his velvety body soak up his tears. This was by no means the first time Fluff had been subjected to this kind of treatment and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. That’s just what comes with being this boy’s inanimate, emotional-support buddy.

Micky was angry, yes, but, now, at himself. His tears spilled from sorrow but they burned hot with rage. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He gritted his teeth just thinking about his own face and how horrible he was convinced he was. He only dwelled on the negative at times like these. His natural nature was very sweet and physically affectionate when he wasn't upset.

He let go of Fluff and ran his fingers through his own hair roughly. He was getting worked up again from being alone with his thoughts. He shot a look over to Fluff as if he was supposed to stop him from doing something stupid, something he'd regret. Fluff only looked back blankly. Or, not really, since his eyes were permanently closed because of the embroidery. Micky still felt the judgement, nonetheless.

“Stop…” he said to the stuffed cat. He looked at him some more before pushing him aside. “Stop!” he commanded. He was projecting his own conscience onto Fluff and it was telling him he was about to make a huge mistake.

 

Micky grabbed Fluff and left the room, ignoring his better judgement. He made sure to be quiet since his father had told him to stay in his room. He snuck down the stairs and went into the kitchen. He sat behind the counter to make sure his dad was out of the area, providing a clear shot to the next room.

He quietly went in. The room was hardly used other than entertaining. It was clean, though. Their house was always very clean. Micky walked to the other side of the room. It had a bar with fancy stools and cabinets behind it, filled with pretty bottles of alcohol.

He gave Fluff another look. He felt the judgement now more than ever. He huffed and sat Fluff in one of the barstools before rifling through some of the bottles. This wasn't the first time he'd done this- he actually had sort of a problem with drinking. He sifted as gently as possible. The glass bottles clinking against one another was enough to arouse suspicion. He was starting to get nervous. His hands were shaking as he looked through the cabinet, trying to find something that appealed to his taste. He looked back at Fluff once again as if he were going to get up and physically stop him.

"Hmm…" Micky half whined while still searching. He pulled out a bottle of vodka that was almost empty. He found it a little strange since he knew his dad didn't really drink vodka and his siblings weren't drinkers. He set it aside and looked deeper. He found some bottles of tequila. Now those he wasn't surprised were almost empty. "Aha…" he whispered. He pulled out a bottle of rum, about half full. He held it up like he was showing it to Fluff as he smiled a little.

He picked Fluff up off of the stool and tucked him under his arm. He wasn't sure if he wanted to drink here or try to sneak up to his room. After momentary consideration, he decided it was safest to stay put. He picked a fairly hidden corner behind the bar to settle into and sat Fluff in his lap. His hands still shaking, he opened the bottle and smelled the contents. This was definitely a strong one. He looked up at the bar and noticed some shot glasses glistening with the low light of the moon. He looked at the bottle and back at the glasses. He knew you were supposed to measure your intake, but he was upset and didn't care about his own well-being. He was on a destructive rampage- it was either this or some type of gorey, self inflicted pain.

Micky lifted the bottle directly to his mouth. He took three drinks before putting it down. He choked a little bit and whined. He hated the way that he was. He wished he could just be normal like his big sister or brother. Why couldn't he just behave? He felt the liquor hit his stomach like a brick, burning all the way down. He breathed in, only intensifying the sweet taste of the rum. That part he actually liked. He was quite fond of it, actually. He looked down at Fluff and offered him some jokingly. With no response from the toy, he lifted it back up to his mouth and chugged the remaining fluid. He put the now empty bottle on the floor next to him, accidentally clinking it on the tile. His whole body was now shaking. He'd never drank that much at once. He thought he had, but his previous binges had been with a lot lower proof than this time. He hugged Fluff tightly. He immediately regretted chugging the alcohol.

"Oh… no…" Micky groaned, squeezing Fluff. His entire insides burned. His tiny stomach was full and the liquor was sloshing around inside of it. Micky kept groaning and held Fluff tight against his middle in lieu of actually holding his stomach. He let himself fall onto his side, knocking over the glass bottle. If his dad hadn't gone to bed, he definitely would have heard the noise. He decided to get up, go to his bed, and wait for it to all be over. Well, that was the plan, anyway. Executing it was a whole separate obstacle.

Micky took a deep breath and forced himself to stand to his feet. It was hard for him to keep his balance as his whole body was violently trembling. He gripped onto Fluff like his life depended on it and slowly made his way up to the staircase, stopping right at the bottom. Never before had the stairs seemed so great in number. He forced himself to crawl upward, slow as it may be. After about five solid minutes of stair-climbing, Micky made it to his bedroom. He crawled across the floor and somehow managed to get up onto his bed. It was an incredible feat, considering how it was difficult for him to get up there on any usual day. He adjusted himself as well as he could, calling it quits when he finally got his head on one of his pillows.

Micky laid on his back, holding Fluff to his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore how he was feeling. He didn't know what was happening. He'd been pretty drunk before, and he enjoyed it mostly. This was different, though. This was something else. He laid still, waiting for the effects to hit him. He assumed maybe it was just the potency of the rum that burned his insides. He figured he'd feel better when it finally kicked in.

After a few more minutes, Micky got uncomfortable. It was like the usual drunkenness was coming on but he felt horrible. His heart was starting to pound inside his chest. It wasn't like a normal pound, either, like one you'd get from running a great distance or getting jump scared. This was hard and… weird. It was almost as if it was beating out of sync every so often. Micky tried changing the position in which he was laying in hopes of alleviating whatever this was. He was starting to lose control of his limbs, but he was used to that part. He held Fluff over his face and stared at him while labored breaths went through his mouth. His vision was going out, blurry and doubled. He was definitely hammered, but in no way he was used to. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to get party drunk- the kind of drunk that makes you giggle and forget about your problems for the night. This, on the other hand… this was brutal.

He wished his brother wasn't away, he wanted him to be there to hold him. He was always there to help when he did stupid things like this. He never judged Micky or condemned him for hurting himself- he only cared about helping him when he needed it. Micky loved his sister just as much, but her kind of help wasn't the same as Slator's. Micky always wanted Slator when he hit rock bottom.

Micky turned to his other side. He felt the rum sloshing around again, burning hard as it settled. He started to feel nauseous. He gagged a little and ungracefully shoved Fluff onto his face. He groaned loudly, muffling the painful cry with the soft body of his cat toy. His groaning gained volume as he continued on in his misery. The noises turned from groans to a sort of half-groaning-half-retching due to the nausea. Micky started to cry on top of it all. He was far below in control of the situation and everything he was doing from this point on were, for the most part, involuntary. He added loud sobbing on top of all the weird noises he was already making.

Now this was definitely loud enough to wake up his father. Cy, being the good dad he was, immediately got up to check on him. He was a bit delayed due to his disability, but he was nonetheless rushing.

 

"Micky, is that you?" Cy questioned, while turning on the light on in his son's room. He rubbed his eyes as they were used to the darkness.

 

Micky only continued on as he was. He wasn't really aware of what was going on at this time. All he knew was that he felt awful and he wanted it to end.

 

"Micky what is wrong!?" Cy went over to Micky's bed to comfort him.

 

Before his dad could reach the bed, Micky violently puked up the contents of his stomach. He still had Fluff pressed against his face, which was forcing the vomit to stay in his nose and mouth.

 

"Oh, my God!" Cy cried out while trying to assist him. He was glad he was already laying on his side. "Micky, move the cat!" he instructed. In any other circumstance, Micky would have listened. However, Micky was hardly conscious and was physically unable to perform the ordered task. Cy couldn't wait for Micky to obey and grabbed the toy himself, which was now soaked with used rum. The smell alone nearly knocked Cyrano back. "Jesus Christ, Micky!" he exclaimed, unsure of how to deal with the situation. It had now become apparent to Cy that Micky was intoxicated, but to what degree he wasn't sure. Cy was arguably on the scale of alcoholism when he was in college. Why did Micky have to take after him so much?

"Micky, can you hear me?" he asked, still relatively unfamiliar with the effects of alcohol on androids. Apparently it was very similar to that of a human. At least that meant Cy was doing his job correctly.

 

Micky only responded with a loud cry in pain.

 

"Fuck…" Cy had no idea what to do for him. He was always the drunk one. His best friend, Julius, was the one who took care of him in college. He debated about calling him and asking for advice but he didn't want to take his eyes off of Micky. He didn't know how dangerous the situation was.

"Micky, are you okay?" he asked his son slowly.

 

Micky looked at his dad. All he saw at this point was a vague, doubled silhouette. He breathed in in an attempt to speak but all that came out was more vomit. It hurt badly. It was so forceful that it couldn't just come out of his mouth- it came out his nose as well. His eyes watered and everything burned. The half digested liquid was soaking into his blanket.

 

Cy choked from the smell and opened the window in hopes of airing out the bedroom. While Cy had his back turned, Micky started squirming around and threw himself off the bed. Cy quickly turned his attention back to the boy when he heard the loud thud. "Micky!?" he called out, now not able to see his son. He went to the other side of the bed and saw Micky in a very uncomfortable-looking heap. He leaned down to try to help him up but it was proving difficult from his chair. He managed to prop him up awkwardly against the wall. At least now he wouldn't choke if he vomited again.

 

Micky listened to his surroundings. He'd never felt worse in his entire life. He heard his dad talking to him… or was it to him? No… it was to someone else. Cy had decided to call Julius after all. Micky heard the voices but couldn't process what they were saying. The voices started to grow quiet. Funny how the sounds went quiet the same time the lights got dimmer. Or was that even happening at all? Micky listened and watched until everything went dark and silent. He blacked out and fell over, unaware of most of the events between first laying in his bed and the morning to come.


End file.
